


your move

by maelstrcms



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Chess Metaphors, Falling In Love, Hunger Games-Typical Death/Violence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 06:47:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28952169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maelstrcms/pseuds/maelstrcms
Summary: Who truly wins in a game of chess, the pieces or the players?
Relationships: Chittaphon Leechaiyapornkul | Ten/Wong Yuk Hei | Lucas
Comments: 13
Kudos: 36
Collections: Challenge #4 — Awaken The World





	your move

**Author's Note:**

> for a little wonder fest - awaken the world
> 
> this round was really fun and i really liked reading everyone's amazing works!! while this fic was a little rushed due to the word count limit, i'm glad i was able to participate and i hope everyone enjoys reading this as much as i enjoyed writing it!!
> 
> thank you so much [yulie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/softseoksoons/) for betaing and helping me fix the mess that was the original draft!! ily so much and i owe you my life hehe
> 
> [fic playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1SKcWWl26yxi0oC8uGyqaB?si=A2vCktcNTGqfQBOMm_Y-KA)

“I’m sorry.”

Ten was scarred hands and honey skin, fresh berries and shooting stars. Ten was the euphoria that came after a successful kill, the pride that swelled in his chest after a white parachute descended from the sky, a gift from the sponsors he earned. Ten was his sun, Ten was his moon, Ten was all the stars in his night sky.

As he was living out his days in the arena, Lucas thought of Ten.

At that moment, death didn’t seem so bad, after all.

“Let’s get through the _boys_ first this year, shall we?”

Ten’s hands were tangled in the folds of his too-large shirt, fingers crossed under thick fabric as he watched his district’s escort, a tall woman with pink hair and high heels, stick a pale hand into the glass bowl, fumbling her way to the very bottom, before picking a paper with ornate talon-like nails.

Ten was no fighter. He was born small — too skinny and malnourished to be of much use, sent up the trees before he had even learned to walk. He knew not of killing, just a simple boy who hid in the trees, alone with his thoughts and the rustle of leaves.

Like every child in District Eleven, Ten feared the reaping. In spite of him being one of thousands, one head of black hair that blended in with all the others, he knew nothing was impossible.

Ten hated randomness, hated being placed against the odds. He hated knowing that living was never guaranteed, each chapter of the story of his life ending in a question mark.

She looked over the words once more, smiling daintily as if she wasn’t an executioner, whisking some helpless child away to their imminent death. To her, this was all entertainment, a lucky draw where the winner became a piece in the horrible game of chess that she watched, safely on the other side of the screen.

“This year’s male tribute of District Eleven _is_ ,” she crowed, attempting to hype up the silent crowd.

“Chittaphon Leechaiyapornkul!”

Ten’s memory went blank.

His consciousness returned to the scene unfolding around him; the murmur of the crowd, heads turning here as no one answered the call of his name. The escort glanced at the crowd and back at the tiny sheet of paper, somehow managing to keep her composure. “Chittaphon?”

The district rustled again. _My name_ , Ten realised. _She’s calling my name._

He was a frail figure, a mere sapling amongst primaeval trees, a brittle twig ready to be crushed underfoot. All eyes were on him as he made his way to the stage like a goat to slaughter.

“There he is, this year’s lucky tribute!” the woman smiles. “How old are you, child?”

“Sixteen.”

Two more years. He only had two more years, and he would have been free from the reapings forever.

The world was never fair to those like Ten.

He must’ve looked so pathetic, Ten thought, as he was shepherded out of the vehicle and into a building taller than what he had ever seen before. A lone pawn on the chessboard, a sacrificial lamb.

His fellow tribute, Sooyoung — or as she had told him to call her, Joy — was next to him. She didn’t look at all joyful, her face drawn and anxious, sitting bolt upright, as if she would fall to pieces if she didn’t.

Ten felt the same way. Perhaps they had something in common after all.

Their escort, Krystal, was kind enough, showing them to their rooms and the tables filled with food and drink before disappearing somewhere else, leaving Ten to the mercy of the stylists.

“Your hair looks _terrifying_ ,” an eccentric man complained, poking at his messy chin-length hair with a pair of scissors. “Look at all those split ends!”

The stylist exhaled irritably, pushing a pair of bedazzled glasses onto his nose. “I have less than three hours to get you ready for the parade, so don’t move. What’s your name again?”

“It’s Ten,” he squeaked as the man began to aggressively hack at his hair.

“I’m Key. By the way,” he swung the swivelling chair Ten sat in around to look him in the eyes. “do you have anything against hair dye?”

One thing that he had learned at the Capitol was that there was no opportunity for him to get over the shock of getting reaped. Everything was scheduled down to the minute, giving him barely enough time to comprehend all that was happening around him.

Ten was adorned in hues of gold and orange, fake leaves stuck onto a sheer bodysuit in places that conveniently covered his most intimate parts. Apart from that, it left almost nothing to the imagination. The chariot he and Joy shared was decorated similarly, fall flowers and berries filling the chariot with colour.

 _Beautiful_ , he thought, examining his reflection in a mirror Key had lent him, marvelling at the pigments on his lips and eyelids that turned them brown and red. This year, the stylists had chosen autumn as their theme. Ten supposed that he was lucky, his clothes (or lack thereof) far more appealing than that of tributes of District Ten, who were dressed as cows to represent livestock.

“Admiring yourself?”

Ten snapped the mirror shut in surprise and met eyes with a herculean male wearing nothing but a sheet draped across his shoulders and a pair of shorts tied at the waist. He hastily averted his gaze, thankful for the painted swirls of orange that hid the blush on his cheeks. “I’m not used to the colour,” he pointed a finger at his freshly-dyed blonde hair.

“It looks nice,” the guy leaned on the carriage without bothering to ask for permission first, the cart creaking from his body weight. Ten recognised him as a tributes from Two — the one with the emotionless stare, all bones and sinew. He looked less intimidating now, his movements relaxed and almost lazy.

“I’m Lucas, by the way,” he added, a muted sheen of light grey paint coating his entire body accompanied by an expression of mirth. “According to my stylist, I’m supposed to be a marble sculpture.”

“At least you have some clothes on,” Ten nodded at the tributes of District Three — completely bare save the wires weaved together to keep their private parts _private_. “Call me Ten.”

Lucas’s forehead crinkled. “I would rather be naked. Whatever they painted me with _itches_.”

Lucas spoke in a way that made it easy to start conversations. Despite his seemingly easy-going nature, Ten kept his guard up. He had probably been trained and prepared for the Games all his life, a privilege that Ten could only dream of.

He was so caught up in his thoughts that he had stopped listening, only tuning back into reality when Lucas pointed at someone.

“That’s my teammate, Irene.”

A girl who looked as deadly as a sharpened blade raised a hand in greeting before turning away to speak to another tribute with dark curly hair.

“She likes axes, but I’m more of a sword guy. You?”

Ten opened his mouth and shut it. His lack of experience with weapons was his weak spot, and he didn’t want to give it away so easily. “I don’t have a favourite.”

Why bother hiding it? He was going to die, anyway. Was it better to die knowing that he was what everyone thought he was — a random boy born and dying with nothing, or a warrior who would go down fighting for his last breath? Which was better? Which would hurt _less_?

“It’s best not to specialise,” Lucas agreed, oblivious to Ten’s internal conflict. “You never know what they’ll put in the arena. You’re from Eleven, right? You should be able to climb and stuff.”

“Yeah,” breathed Ten, grateful for the excuse.

Lucas flashed a toothy grin and ran a hand through his hair. “Cool. Well,” he stepped forward and stretched. “I’d better get going before the parade starts and my mentor kills me. See you?”

Ten wiggled his fingers in goodbye, smiling back at him.

Ten sat alone in the training centre. It was almost 4 in the morning, hours after the tributes from Four, who seemed to have as much stamina as they knew to tie knots, had finally turned in for the night, leaving him with his thoughts.

His mentor was a dark-haired woman about twenty years older than him who went by Victoria, a fitting name for the only living victor the district had. Although her eyes were a warm brown, there was a shadow of darkness inside, the only visible remnant of her time in the arena.

She had given him and Joy a list of skills to prepare, spoonfed him information about the tributes, imparting all that she had learned onto the two tributes. Three days had come and gone as they figured out how to fight, how to run, how to survive. The next day would be the private sessions, and the day after that, Ten would be in the arena.

Victoria’s advice wasn’t all fighting techniques. She taught them the little things, like getting the crowd’s appeal. Staying calm during the bloodbath. Focusing your emotion into a pinpoint needle of power.

“Fancy seeing you down here.”

Lucas looked down at him, dark eyebags present on his otherwise unblemished face.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“Me neither,” he cleared his throat, hands fiddling with the end of his shirt. “Do you mind if I sit here? Just for a little while?”

“Be my guest.”

They didn’t speak at all after that, but Ten didn’t find the silence jarring. It reminded him of picking fruits in the middle of the night, the sound of breathing the only thing that broke the silence.

Key wrapped his arms around Ten’s bony frame, ruffling his now-black hair sadly. Victoria was the last to say goodbye, folding her arms carefully around the boy with an almost motherly instinct.

“You’re a survivor, Ten. I believe in you.”

The words he wanted to say died in his throat and he hugged her back, tears welling up in his eyes, before stepping onto the hovercraft.

When the platform was raised, Ten took a deep breath.

The clothes that he wore gave no hint of what the arena would look like — combat boots, a thin jacket and a skin-tight bodysuit, all in black.

Ten’s vision cleared fast, scoping the arena while the other tributes were disoriented. The arena was all forest, trees towering high above their heads around the clearing where the platforms were. The Cornucopia sat in the middle of the opening, taunting him with its shiny exterior.

The sky was grey and overcast, the little light that peeped through the clouds reflecting off the supplies lying on the grass. The lack of weapons was surprising, a few blades hidden between the meagre amount of survival kits and backpacks. This year, the gamemakers wanted the Games to be drawn out and painful.

_Six._

Victoria’s advice from the days before echoed in his head — know where you stand and don’t get distracted. He saw Joy a few platforms away, surrounded on both sides by Jaehyun, a muscular tribute from Seven with arms thick from chopping wood, and Lee Taeyong, the famous tribute from One who had looks almost as sharp as his chosen weapon: throwing knives.

_Five._

Lucas stood three platforms to his right, meeting his gaze with a quirk of his lips, mouthing out one unmistakable word.

“Allies?”

_Three._

_Two._

_One._

There was no time to think, no time to reconsider. Ten took off his platform with a flying leap, sprinting with all his might towards the bag closest to him, which happened to be about a hundred meters away.

Cannons were blowing already, and Ten saw a girl come running for the same pack.

Victoria had spoken of a strange calm on the battlefield, a tranquillity that came with violence. Ten felt no such thing, barely managing to mask his panic as he reached down mid-stride to grab the closest thing he could use as a weapon — a rock the size of his fist.

When the girl dove for the bag like an eagle swooping for its prey, all rational thought left him. He slammed it into the back of her head over and over again as if he was possessed, even when the cannon blew and her body went limp, slumped over the pack of precious survival in an embrace of death.

It was only when warm arms pulled him off her corpse, gentle hands prising the rock from his grasp and tossing it away that he was awakened out of his stupor.

Lucas helped him to his feet with a beam that stretched from ear to ear despite being covered in blood that wasn’t his, muttering words into his ear that were too kind to be said in an arena where you didn’t know who you could trust.

Ten wiped the mess of gore and tears off his face, coming down from his high. Realising, with a sinking feeling in his gut, that he had just ended a life.

He untangled himself from Lucas’s arms, on his knees. He closed her staring eyes with two fingers and spoke an apology that fell on deaf ears. Respect the dead.

He barely noticed the melee coming to an end, the cannons booming again and again. He figured that he was next, but he still didn’t move. Ten had killed someone. He deserved to die.

When he heard the footsteps come towards him, he awaited the killing blow with his head bowed, but it didn’t come.

Lucas held a dagger out to him hilt-first, glowing radiant under the dim sunlight.

It was just the two of them: Lucas and Ten. Ten and Lucas.

They spread the few weapons among themselves, dividing the limited supplies between them. A few pieces of dried fruit. A canteen of water. Some preserved meat. Not a lot, but enough.

The night came soon and the winds blew cold. They camped in the Cornucopia for the night, Lucas taking first watch while Ten rested. He trusted Lucas.

Lucas was soft.

Everything about him was soft, from his dark hair that flopped messily across his forehead to the hand that was holding Ten’s, insisting that it was for warmth.

His voice was soft too, low and melodic as he spoke about everything. His home in Two. The Academy where kids were trained. The mountain that overlooked the district, making everything seem small from the peak. Ten knew that he was the greatest for his age, the best to come from District Two in a long time, according to Victoria.

He should’ve been deadly. It would’ve made it so much easier for Ten if he was how he should’ve been — a bloodthirsty weapon of death, murdering all in his path. Being killed by him would be easier, too, but life for Ten was never that straightforward.

Ten whispered to him, as they lay under the stars, about everything and nothing. The fruit, hanging bright in the highest branches that he had never dared to taste even when he was near starvation. The trees, and how they whispered to one another when the wind rustled through their leaves. The small shack that Ten shared with other kids whose parents had been killed. Telling this to Lucas brought a burden off his shoulders — perhaps it was so his story wouldn’t end so abruptly. Perhaps it was so that if Lucas won, his memory would live on.

Lucas listened with wide eyes, understanding nods and murmurs of apology. They both knew that nothing they said could change anything, but it didn’t matter.

Ten could feel the cameras on him, knew that, somewhere out there, people were watching. He didn’t care.

Their arms were around each other as the wind blew colder than ever. Colder than the wind by Ten’s home up in the trees.

Lucas’s lips were soft.

There were thirteen deaths in all, the smiling faces of the dead flashing in the night sky. The girl he killed was there too, more alive than ever, a small face painted in a smile too big for someone who would die too young.

Ten tried his best to ignore the lingering cold that managed to penetrate his clothes, blocking out the echoes of the anthem in his ears with the sound of Lucas’s voice.

It had been two days. Two days of killing, two days of ending lives and washing their remains away in the river. Two days of falling deeper and deeper into the pit that was Lucas, spending their nights in each other's arms.

Ten feared many things, and the unknown was one of them. Lucas was a mystery he couldn’t solve, an unfinished puzzle. Warm to the touch, but cold underneath. A heart that beat in time with both Ten’s and the tempo of his fighting, keeping time for Lucas’s deadly dance.

Lucas held him carefully, like he was his world, but those hands he held Ten with were coated in red.

With Lucas, there was never a promise of forever. No solid answer, no logic to his actions.

Ten supposed he should have seen it coming. He finally got what he had wished for, on that night under the starry sky.

When his blade came slicing through the air, Ten didn’t leap out of the way. Instead, he smiled and reached for Lucas’s hand once more, squeezing it lightly. He felt himself fall, out of his grip and out of the shackles that bound him to the board, forcing him to play.

As death took him into its arms, Ten remembered what Victoria had said.

"You're a survivor, Ten."

She was wrong. Of the two of them, Lucas would be the sole victor, the final piece on the board.

It was all a game of chess, and Ten was merely a pawn.

A pawn who dared to love the king.

**Author's Note:**

> [twitter](https://twitter.com/maelstrcms) / [curious cat](https://curiouscat.qa/maelstrcms)


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